Maelstroms
by Ember Nickel
Summary: Surviving the Death Star (or two) is one challenge. Figuring out how to live in the galaxy is another. [Star Wars Rare Pare 2018 gift for Bright Elen.]


Baze Malbus speaks the truth and he means well. But sometimes he doesn't see all the wavelengths coming from the same star.

What he tells the Rebel Alliance is: "When we met Bodhi, he had been tortured by the Bor Gullet, the monster that ravaged his mind. He is brave and talented, but sometimes he doesn't put things together the same way as other people."

This is what happened:

Bodhi had fled the Empire in search of Saw Gerrera, the man Galen Erso had told him to find. A rebel leader, a hero. Saw's men had blindfolded him and led him through the burning desert without directions, without trust. He had been imprisoned for speaking the truth and changing his ways.

 _We_ , he had told himself, no, not we anymore, the Empire, are building a planet-killer. It's worth any cost to stop it, and for what I've done in helping it along, I deserve—

Tentacles on his skin, slimy and oozing and unrelenting—

His first combat, twisting and turning and nauseous in artificial gravity while his gunner shot down desperate rebels—

Erso's quiet willingness to go to his death, the trust he'd put in Bodhi by telling him his secrets—

The Bor Gullet lifted a tentacle from his arm, but the slime was still there, and Bodhi could not move, could not fight—

Pain lancing through his skull, and his silent pleading _Kill me now, take the hologram from my body if you have to, but don't leave me like this, don't let me forget what I'm fighting for—_

Darkness.

Then he was leaving Jedha City and guiding strangers out of the maelstrom as his home was extinguished behind him. He had returned but it was too late; his city had been annihilated for his daring to run, and the deaths weighed on him like the Gullet's too-numerous limbs.

He'd gone to Scarif as if he could atone there, and the Empire had destroyed the Citadel instead. Humans and beings who had fought for the Rebellion for years were wiped out, and he, in another borrowed Imperial ship, had survived.

None of it was fair, but the Force, or something else cruel and distant, had it out for him. He had to endure, hear the news of Alderaan's destruction, too late to make a difference once again.

When it was over, and the Death Star crumbled in the Yavin sky, he still didn't know why he was alive. But there was nowhere for him to return. K-2SO had told him he was a rebel, back on Eadu, and his only choice was to continue to fight.

* * *

Bodhi likes Hoth, as much as he can like anywhere filled with wary allies where he prepares to kill his onetime comrades-in-arms. It's cool and dry and remote. Nobody talks out on patrol; they keep their heads down and try to get it over with. There's very little alive—no smelly flowers, no canines that bound up on him and lick him, no insects that sting and evade his reach.

His commanding officers in the Empire had told him that the Rebellion was a place of chaos, where disloyal mercenaries and slow-witted aliens rubbed shoulders with high-and-mighty royalty and mumbo-jumbo mystics. To his relief, there is plenty of structure, if not quite the routines he's used to.

For one thing, there's a lot less in the way of education—well, in retrospect, propaganda. The Alliance has no formal leadership to look to, and few triumphs to proclaim. Many of its leaders are old enough to remember the flourishing of the Republic, and they don't feel the need to proclaim its glory days to the enlistees who were learning to ride two-wheelers when the Empire rose.

The Empire had acknowledged its defeats, but mostly in order to stir up vengeance. When the Rebellion commemorates its martyrs, it's as much about honoring them as individuals than sounding the battle cry. Bodhi never sticks around longer than seems polite. In part, he doesn't want the attention that sometimes comes with it. Yes, he'd survived Scarif, but that seems more luck than skill.

And in part, he finds it strange to dwell on the past. There is death and oppression everywhere, just as there has been in every time. What will mourning the past do to new recruits who never knew Jyn Erso or Cassian Andor, but weigh them down with previous generations' grief?

He finds Toryn Farr wandering the halls one night. "Had enough of Wedge?" she grins.

"Wedge?" he echoes. "Oh, uh, Antilles? He's fine, I guess."

"He needs to cut back on the toasts. Not all of us have a silicon leg."

"No," says Bodhi. "I don't think Wedge does either. As far as I know."

"Well, we'll see tomorrow morning, I guess," Farr laughs.

Barring a wampa attack, Bodhi doesn't really agree, but he lets the matter drop. One more person willing to talk and smile with him, and not bring up his past or the galaxy's, is enough of a victory.

* * *

Four small groups are late to the rendezvous point. Two of them ran into technical malfunctions, blaming the Hoth weather for not allowing them to do routine inspections when it was more likely the crew's slacking off was to blame, and had to find spare parts before continuing. A third took the opportunity to infiltrate an Imperial energy supply station, and had made it out undetected, but with nothing more to show for it than some very outdated hierarchy charts.

The fourth, Bodhi is informed, was pursued by the Empire, got caught in an asteroid field, evaded a living asteroid trying to consume them, got taken hostage, and sparked a mass exodus from the mining city of Bespin, after one of its members was frozen in carbonite after failing to pay his gambling debts.

"You could just say your hyperdrive broke," Farr notes. "We'd believe you."

"Han wouldn't jump ship over a little hyperdrive," says Leia Organa, stiffly.

Bodhi makes a mental note not to get too close to Luke Skywalker if he can help it. It doesn't seem worth the trouble.

The _Millennium Falcon_ 's detour does come with the unexpected side effect of bringing an experienced Baron Administrator to their camp. "Do you want to go back to being a mayor?" Bodhi asks. "If we win?"

Lando Calrissian regards him evenly. "You know, you're the first person who's asked me that."

Bodhi shrugs.

"It's something I more...happened into, you could say. Part of me has always been a gambler, a smuggler—I suppose I'm just taking on bigger targets now." He gives a carefree smile, and Bodhi wonders how long smiles like that can last within the Alliance's bases before they're ground down to the hardened glares of endurance.

"A lot of us were politicians, before. Mothma, Organa, them. Others were soldiers, or...ordinary people. It's easier to plan how to rebuild if you've done it before. Right?"

"I don't know about that," says Calrissian. "There's a lot of profit to be made in not stepping on anyone's footpaws and keeping your distance. I get the feeling they won't line up to come to me for advice."

"I would," says Bodhi. "But maybe that's why I'm not in charge."

"What were you?"

"What?"

"Not a politician, not a soldier?"

"Nobody important," Bodhi snaps, and for a moment wonders if his face betrays his fear.

But Calrissian lets it go. "Sounds like that's changed."

Part of Bodhi thinks that the Rebellion is so small that everyone needs to step up, have heroism thrust upon them. But another part remembers his medal, sweating in the fancy clothes someone found for him on Yavin, and stays quiet. Being a pilot is something he can still be proud of, no matter where. The sky is the sky.

* * *

Calrissian brokers deals for better ships and blasters, helps resettle migrants from Cloud City, and is even said to have beaten Davits Draven at sabacc, to widespread acclaim. But when he's not aiding the Alliance, he and his friends scheme to cut a deal with Jabba the Hutt, or if that fails, steal Han Solo out from under his watch.

"You can go," Bodhi explains. "You're not—we're not forcing you to be here."

"I understand," says Lando. "But sneaking into Jabba's palace isn't an easy operation, even for me. Might as well make the most of the downtime to help out some underdogs, no?"

"Never mind." Calrissian has a friend he wants to rescue. Great. The galaxy is full of people who have friends in dire straits, who want to be free to look out for them.

But then why remain in the Alliance, where his life is at risk every day, when he could be fighting for someone specific? Everyone from Mothma to Ackbar stresses that individuals come and go, but the freedom of the galaxy is bigger than any of them.

The Empire had been similar, and yet not. They weren't called upon to sacrifice for freedom; they had the opportunity to win glory and ensure order.

Most of his fellow soldiers, Bodhi remembers, had not been much older than him. But their commanders were. What had given them such confidence in the stability of a government they knew was only a couple decades old?

"Your name sounds familiar," Bodhi points out. "Have you been on a holo-vid or something?"

Calrissian smiles. "Is that what you ask all the handsome men?"

"No!" Bodhi blurts. "I mean, you're plenty good-looking, I'm just...not good with faces." At least Calrissian is bold enough to wear colorful capes as often as he can, which makes him easier to place.

"Well, if I was, I haven't been paid for it," says Calrissian.

It takes Bodhi a few searches to narrow down the archive footage to neutral-enough accounts that the Empire would have had a record of it, distant in the past enough that he might have seen it, and high-quality enough that the participants can be identified. But he grows more proficient with navigating the Alliance's database, and eventually, there it is: a skirmish near the planet Taanab. His instructors had tried to highlight the caninefighting tactics of a larger craft, but what he'd been impressed by were the evasive tactics of a small ship. A pirate who lured the security forces away from his allies, not taking a shot but keeping his pursuers veering off-course. Yes, it's the same man!

"He's not just a mercenary," Bodhi tries to explain to Mothma. "I mean, he's a lot of things, but—he has military experience too. Uh, it wasn't a legal military, but, neither is ours, technically? What I'm saying is, we should recognize his rank."

It's the fair thing to do. Not that insignia matters when they could be dead any day, but it's something.

Of course, Calrissian has to go and take off the next day on his absurd rescue mission, so maybe he is just a mercenary after all.

* * *

Another Death Star.

The Empire is building another Death Star.

The Empire is building another Death Star, and nobody told Bodhi, and the Bothan spies went and got themselves killed, and the Ersos and Andor and all the others will have died in vain if it operates, and—

"What's going on?" Calrissian asks, his lapel gleaming.

Bodhi opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. There is too much and not enough to say; his words lie still like dunes or babble forth like a mighty sandstorm, while other people manage to have them drip evenly like the sands of an hourglass.

"You like this, huh?" He smiles down at the lapel. "I'm leading the aerial team."

"You are?" Bodhi blurts. He was trying to celebrate Calrissian, not put him in more danger!

"I hope so. Unless that Sullustan tries to pull seniority on me."

"Why?"

"Because he's been around longer? I don't know, hopefully he'll settle for a squadron leadership."

"No, I mean, why do you _want_ to lead?"

Calrissian shrugs. "You know the saying, if you want a job done right, do it yourself. Left me with more odd jobs in Bespin than I was fond of, but the place ran."

"Could I, uh..."

"You want to sit this one out? Nobody'll think less of you if it brings up too many memories, but I'm not the one to ask."

"No, no," Bodhi stammers. "I mean, if you're still looking for a co-pilot. I'm available."

"You have that little faith in my aim?"

Is that supposed to be a joke? "Of course not! I know how you flew at Taanab."

"You do?" For someone who's seen it all, Calrissian looks almost appreciative.

"Yes. And I'd be honored to fight alongside you. And also—if I die here—I'd rather it be with someone I—admire. Not alone."

"What the hey," says Calrissian. "I'll take that as a compliment."

* * *

The image of the Forest Moon on the ship's computer is out of date, an archival file, but Bodhi stares at it anyway as if it has the moon's defenses encrypted inside it. Calrissian takes his time inspecting the computers, turning things on and off, making sure he can take over autopilot and cede it again.

"Is this your routine?" Bodhi asks.

"Not on most ships. This one—we've been through together a lot, her and me."

Bodhi rolls his eyes. He's never really understood why some creatures call ships "she." They're not female, and it's not like women are more any more agile or warlike than men.

"It's not _sentient_ , that'd be criminal," Calrissian adds, seeing Bodhi's expression. "But some of the navigation circuits, you can't get those just anywhere, you know?"

Bodhi nods absently. Are smugglers' trade routes proprietary? He's never really considered it.

"Don't worry," says Calrissian. "My friends are down there. They'll have that shield down on time."

"The same friend who got frozen in carbonite?" Bodhi retorts.

"Also the same friend who helped deliver the Death Star plans. Uh, the first ones. Uh—" Calrissian glances over at an extremely unimpressed Bodhi. "Never mind."

Ackbar gives the order to jump to hyperspace, and they take off.

The battle goes according to plan for about five minutes, until Lando realizes that the shield is up. _Another_ shield is up, this one not preventing a message from being sent, but preventing the new Death Star from being targeted.

At least the rebels below already know their responsibility is to bring it down. There will be no more fevered messages, no more desperate relays as they try to cobble something, anything, together.

Still, Bodhi tries to ward off the memories as he and Calrissian fly in tandem. The battle is as terrible and mundane as any other, fighters on both sides exploding in sparks, and Bodhi pays little mind when Lando muses about the Star Destroyers holding off. Any advantage the Rebellion can scrap together is fortune, whether a coincidence or a strategic misstep by the Empire. They can analyze it later, if they live.

When the cruiser is hit, it takes Bodhi a moment to realize what's happened. Space is three-dimensional and a shot can come from any direction; did one of the TIE fighters sneak around?

But no, it's the Death Star, toying with them as it had on Scarif, on Jedha. It doesn't need to obliterate a planet or even a moon, if a hopelessly-small, mobile fleet will suffice.

Calrissian spars with Ackbar over the radio, and gets clearance—or is unable to be stopped—from staying in the fray. Bodhi is relieved. He cannot imagine running and waiting again. Better to make an end of things in the moment, one way or another.

They endure, swerve, get off shots where they can, dare the Imperial ships to get too close. And then Calrissian whoops in delight; the shield is down. "Told you!" he hollers to everyone and no one, although Bodhi doesn't exactly think it's the time for bragging rights.

Antilles and a few of the other fighters lead the way through the maze of the Death Star, much of which still appears to be under construction. Perhaps it doesn't even have the power to target the moon yet. Without Galen Erso's genius and sabotage, the Empire's work is faster but more slapdash, immense yet shoddy.

There is no time to analyze the patterns, and no subtlety to their approach. Bodhi and Calrissian race through, leaving fire and noise in their wake, and the battle station slowly collapses behind them. The reactor explodes, they steer out of the storm, they are free.

* * *

If one more furry Ewok hugs him, smelly and furry and chattering in a language he doesn't understand, Bodhi thinks he might defect back. The Empire has to need his help.

But the next person who approaches taps him at shoulder height. Bodhi glances over to see Calrissian beaming. "Need a snack?"

"No," says Bodhi.

"Anything I can get you?"

"You've already delivered freedom," Bodhi points out. "I think you're fine for the day."

Calrissian laughs, half-wistfully. "You know, they said you're a serious guy, but I think you just have a droidlike sense of humor."

"Who's 'they'?" Bodhi doesn't mind being compared to droids. They're more direct and less annoying than plenty of humans.

"Leia, Malbus, Mothma sometimes..."

"You talk to all these people about me? I'm not that interesting."

"I talk to lots of people about lots of things."

"Yes, I figured that much."

Calrissian shakes his head. "How are you? Really."

"Scared," Bodhi admits. "So we blow this up. Who's to say they won't come back with another one?"

"Well," says Calrissian, "Luke says the Emperor is dead. So there's that."

"Huh."

"You said it, we've done enough for the day. Tomorrow, that'll be another day, and we'll see what we need to do then."

"Easy for you to say."

"You think I can't make plans? I was a Baron Administrator, I know how to organize things. And I know when the law of diminishing returns kicks in."

Bodhi nods. The night sky is hazy, the ashes of the Death Star polluting the unfamiliar constellations.

"Can I offer you a dance?"

Bodhi freezes. "I don't know how."

"Neither does Wedge, that's never stopped him."

"You're saying a dance, with you?"

"Well, it'd be a little impolite to speak for an Ewok, don't you think? Yes, with me."

They've already brought down a planet-killer. What's a little foolhardiness? "If you don't mind," says Bodhi, "I think we make a good team."

"I think so too," says Calrissian, wrapping his arms around Bodhi and stepping back towards the firelight.


End file.
